When she danced he knew his
hope was a feathered thing.
In the moonlight, she shone,
a blue smooth watery ripple
of ostrich wings that made her
seem his Cleopatra in bas-relief.
She raised her hand to the sky
and up high, six feathers flew up.
And just as quickly returned to
earth a billow of floating down.
His twi-night met her sunset
and her feathers fell withered
to the faded shag green carpet,
the scent of dollar store perfume
yielding to the scent of pink night-
gown with a feather boa collar.
There she stood with withered wings—
and still tender to him behold,
their ivory blue membranes unfolding to
un-obliterated skies and waning moons.
But then, they always knew, the
the true thing about feathers is
they know what’s been missed, and
don’t regret it or even mourn.
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